Migration
by Syphro
Summary: A small group of survivors from the Great War make their way toward the United States of America, hoping to find salvation and civilisation amongst the Wasteland. Please Review.
1. I

I

At 13:01 on October the 23rd 2077, seventeen nuclear warheads successfully hit their strategic targets in Manhattan, New York and New Jersey, demolishing the cities and causing critical damage to those nearby. There were no survivors, no vaults, no ghouls and no mutants. The land burned for seven years and the water was irradiated beyond conventional purification. Even Washington D.C. received more mercy from the Chinese than the innocent residents of New York.

The cities surrounding the massacre were shaken violently and irradiated by the inevitable fallout. However, life was resilient enough to adapt, to mutate. A vast population of survivors rose from the undergrounds of Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and others.

They regressed to the old law of anarchy. Society dissolved from the minds of the working classes and the intelligent elite fled to form societies from the rubble and dust and radiation. Many died at the hands of their own countrymen. Everyone had won and everyone had lost in one day.

Pittsburgh became a festering irradiated pit, which slowly poisoned all of the survivors to the brink of insanity and mutation. The United States Capital was smashed by the nuclear holocaust and the residents were like many across the country that resorted to slavery and strife. However, the shell of a society formed in the crater around Vault 101 and it was to be the first of many to thrive in the region.

This, however, is not a story about these survivors, or even these cities. This is a story of an Exodus across the Atlantic for hope of salvation. A journey so fraught with violence, fear and loss that it seemed there was no hope of survival.



Cole was the very definition of the phrase: "Slaving piece of shite". That was why he was dead. His jaw had been smashed from his skull and as his attacker spat in his only intact eye after the savage beating. The boy rose, he was no older than twelve years old. He dropped the blood soaked chair leg.

The child ran his hands through his scraggy blonde hair and exhaled deeply. He looked at the slaver's feet. The boots would have to make do, if he wanted never to have a cut on his foot again. They slipped off after smacking his legs a few more times. The slave dressed himself in the clothes of his captor, which were far too big for him. He grabbed the pump shotgun out of Cole's cold hand and aimed it at the corpse.

He fired once and regretted it as the firearm fell to the ground. The slave took a few more deep breaths. The bruise would be huge. But it didn't matter anymore. Cole was dead and he was free. Now he could read whenever he wanted to.

He headed towards the only standing bookcase in the library and pulled out a preserved book. On the spine was faintly stitched the word "Frankenstein".

He opened the book and read the page. There. That would be his name. Slave's didn't have names but he wasn't one of them anymore. It was a good name. Victor.



In the darkness of the tunnels no one could have seen him. Victor had learned that stealth and survival often go hand in over the two years he had been free. He had fled from the library and lived in the tube stations, stealing food, medicine and ammunition from abandoned stores and oblivious raiders. When he was old enough he would approach them and join their ranks, if they didn't torture and murder him first.

He crouched by the overturned train, maintaining his concentration on the zombies. They were feral and the shadow of their former human selves. They had been mutated by radiation during the initial bombing and had fled to the darkness of the underground network. He was doing them a favour by killing them.

Victor raised his gun and fired twice hurling two of the zombies against the wall behind them. A third came charging towards him, gargling and growling. He fired again and took the zombies leg off. Victor cursed and added his last shell to the shotgun. He fired again and the train line was silent.

There was a sharp pain as a bolt-action rifle buried itself into the back of his head. Victor dropped the shotgun and closed his eyes. He expected his life to flash before his eyes but all he saw was endless darkness.

'You need to be more careful, lad. If I were anyone else, I would have probably pulled the trigger.' said a voice. Victor opened his eyes and turned to look at him. 'You better not look at me. I'll probably scare the shit out of you.'

The voice was distinctly cockney. He spun around to see the man. The man's skin had peeled off his face years ago and a large hole was in the place of his nose. He smelt like rotten flesh. Victor screamed and jumped.

'Quiet! What is your name?'

'What are you?' he shouted again. His voice had not broken yet.

'Fucking Santa Claus… I am Roland and you are?'

'I am Vi… I am Waterloo. Are you a zombie?'

'I prefer the word zuman, get it?'

He didn't laugh.

'Look kid I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, ninety years ago. When that nuke hit the Thames estuary, I was on Tower Bridge. Face full of radiation and within a week my skin fell off. Are you happy?' Roland explained, holstering his rifle. 'I was actually just salvaging ammunition when I heard you shooting earlier. How many of those things have you killed today?'

Waterloo picked up his shotgun and holstered it. He turned around and lightly kicked the dead zombie's head. He remained silent.

'I'm taking you to Piccadilly. Follow me.'

'No.'

'You are coming with me whether you want to or not. There is food and safety there.' Roland grabbed the boy as he pointed his shotgun at him.

'Leave me alone!' he screamed.

'You're out of ammo. What are you gonna do?'


	2. II

II

There was a clatter of gunfire and the merchant collapsed against a brick wall. As he slid to the ground his executioner chuckled and turned to his scarred comrade.

'Fucking wasters, eh?'

'…thinks he can sell me fucking drugs! Sell! Since when did anybody buy something?' he mumbled, pulling a face. He chambered the rifle in his hand and raised it to the sky.

'Are we going to the Circus then?' the executioner asked.

'When those bastards in that alley grow enough balls to attack us.' he sneered keeping his eyes fixed on a point in the midnight sky.

The executioner turned on his heels and fired toward the alley. His pistol jammed after three rounds and he dropped to his knee. A shotgun roared behind him.

'Fuck! What the fuck?' the executioner shouted pointing his pistol into the shadows. 'Shoot him, Dart!' he looked to his left and saw him, face down on the tarmac.

A foot slammed into his wrist as he looked away. A shotgun was screwed into his temple. He looked at his attacker. He was a waster with scraggy blonde hair, dark eyes. It was him.

'Waterloo! Jeez, just…'

'I hate that name! You are a murderer, John. I intend to give Steven justice.'

'Justice! What the fuck is that?' he screamed as the waster closed his eyes. 'Please don't…' The shotgun fired and tore his head in two.

'Justice is blind.'

Victor cocked his shotgun and walked away. The city of London was still a mess. Despite all his efforts, everyone was still another raider or slaver or both. And they had just killed one of the last genuine wasters in the city.

He would move away. Roland and his gang of "civilised" very-close-to-scumbags, holed up in Piccadilly Circus had very little hope. All he could do was kill. Most people were too afraid to come to him as a surgeon, even though he was getting much better. So now Victor was the Sheriff of London. Hated by most and feared by all.

His intelligence was what scared them. How could a slave, son of a bitch, be a genius? But Victor wasn't a genius. Only educated.

He pulled out a bottle of water and took a swig. It was warm but it was clean. He then pulled a rag out of the backpack he'd salvaged and took shelter under a bench outside a harsh concrete building. No one could see or hear him.

Victor would make one last stop at Piccadilly for ammunition and supplies and then make his way south, to the coast, maybe find a boat. But that wasn't worth thinking about, he still had to survive the night.



It had been a long trip but they had made it. Through storms and power failure they had made it to Boston.

For the first time since setting off on their final leg to the east coast they could see the sky.

Petty Officer Nathan King opened the hatch and climbed out, clumsily bumping his black exoskeleton as he walked out onto the deck of the submarine. He carried a fully automatic laser carbine in his hand and scoped the surroundings. He was far from impressed. The city was a shell of its former self.

A droplet of spittle collided with his helmet. He flinched and turned to see the most disgusting creature he had ever seen in his life. He open fired and the beast collapsed with holes ridden in its body. Nathan cursed and pulled off his helmet, there was a hiss as the air filters disconnected. The stench was terrible. He ran his arm along the mess on the side of his helmet, he expected sparks but all he got was a scream as the smooth pieces of metal scratched against each other.

He quickly climbed the ladder and re-entered the submarine hatch. It was dark, damp and warm, hardly a living space for eighteen adults and six children. They would all have to suit up if they planned on disembarking here. The children would have to stay here.

The exoskeletons they had taken were lightweight and heavily armored, allowing their troops to be agile and deadly. The firearms they had taken were limited to some bullpup assault rifles and laser carbines, all of which were silent or silenced.

Petty Officer King returned his rifle to the rack by the airlock and ran through a pair of children to reach his officer, Commander Davis. She was about forty but looked only a day over thirty five. She was also a bitchy hag.

'King, what is the situation?' she asked.

'The outside is clear for now, ma'am.'

'For now?' she barked, her hazel eyes burning his flesh.

'I saw a mutant, a stable mutant. This is much more serious than we thought, ma'am.' he replied, stuttering slightly.

'Go and tell Commodore Hayes what you saw. Dismissed!'

King saluted, hurling insults at her psychically. He marched past a group of his fellow NCOs and through the spine of the sub until he reached the Commodore's room.

He knocked twice and entered. Commodore Hayes was seated and addressing Captain Shelley, the resident officer-in-charge, doctor and surgeon. The Captain, who was only about twenty three, had been one of the last to join their exodus. He departed within a few seconds and the Commodore rose to greet him.

'Nathan, what happened?' he asked as he hugged Nathan, despite him still being dressed in an exoskeleton.

'There was a mutant, uncle! A living breathing mutant! It wasn't even in pain.' he exclaimed

'And it attacked you?'

'Yes, sir.' Nathan said. The Commodore sighed and stroked his chin. A grey beard was the only sign of the Commodore's age. He rubbed his hairless head.

'The children must stay here. We need to send a scouting party out…' he muttered quietly. 'Was it dangerous?'

'It was like a midget, with no arms, a huge tongue thing and six legs.'

'Is it dangerous, Nathan?' he asked impatiently.

'It spat at me. I think it was acidic or irradiated.'

'Dismissed, I'll call all of our military personnel to the briefing room.' The Commodore ordered, saluting King as he pressed a small button on the wall above his desk. There were three short blasts of the siren as every serving man and woman headed toward the largest room on the compact submarine.

They knew little of the horrors that waited for them in the Wasteland.


	3. III

III

The incredible green hills of the English countryside were a stark contrast to the harsh metallic structures of the Great British cities. It was early morning and, if you had good eyesight, one would be able to pick out a small campfire surrounded by tents and horses.

A lone waster stood on a hill. One could tell from great distances that he was very different. He wore smashed sunglasses and body armour over his ripped shirt and jeans. Only the very observant would notice the stump that was his left forearm.

The waster exhaled, and smoke pillowed from his mouth. He coughed and threw the fag butt to the ground, crushing it with his shoes. He saw the lone stranger stumbling in the dim morning light. He had not seen the fire or heard him cough.

'Stop right there!' the man called, pulling an American 10mm pistol from his pocket. The man obeyed, and threw the shotgun he was carrying to the ground.

'Can I come into your camp?'

The waster exhaled sharply. Had he known where they were? 'What do they call you?'

'Victor. I have supplies I can trade. What should I call you?'

'Call me Canon. I suppose I should welcome you to Bale.' the man replied smirking. He turned toward the camp and beckoned the stranger to follow. He did not pick up his shotgun.

The communities in the wastes amazed Victor; there were few raiders, punks or lunatics running around in the countryside. He pulled a few berries out of his pocket and put them into his mouth as he followed Canon.

'How did you lose your arm?'

'It's a long story. I was involved with a gang for a long time when I was growing up. Let's just say they didn't let me out for free… Oi! Mary!'

A woman no older than Victor exited the stained tent and jogged towards them. She kissed Canon on the cheek when she reached him. He whispered something and she approached Victor.

'What can I do for you?' she asked smiling.

'Do you have any weapons?'

'We've got a good quality American assault rifle and plenty of 5.56mm ammo too. How long have you been on the road?'

'I spent about four years chasing the sun from London, trading and helping out. Can I have a horse as well… please?'

'You can, you seem like one of the good guys around here. Just like my husband. What do you have in exchange?' Mary asked, raising an eyebrow.

Victor reached into his backpack and pulled out two pillboxes of painkillers and a diamond necklace, handing them to her. She frowned and shook her head.

'One more.'

He shrugged and pulled another pillbox out of his bag. She finally smiled. Canon returned and she motioned to a horse and mouthed 'rifle'. He removed the loot and walked away content.

'How long have you been here, then?' Victor asked as he watched Canon pack a horse with the ammo boxes and rifle he had bought.

'About six years, now. I met Canon when he was twenty and we set up here. You must have some good stories?'

'No…' Victor mumbled. 'I heard there was a Royal Marines base or something near here?'

'Two miles to the south, you'll meet the perimeter fence by the woods. I wouldn't go. People don't usually return when they go there to loot the place.'



It was late evening when the scouts, made up of a squad of four, finally left the submarine. The sun would set in less than three hours and they needed an observation point set up to guard the harbour.

Petty Officer King scanned the area with the scanners built into the visor. He gripped his laser carbine tightly as the other in his squad, mainly corporals with commando training, followed closely behind, the stocks of their assault rifles hugging their armpits.

They mostly worked in silence, as their radio comms were still being repaired. A hand tapped King's shoulder and they moved ashore. He spotted a demolished shop, large enough for temporary dwelling, less than a minute's march.

'We'll garrison that building.' he ordered quietly, pointing at the building.

They rushed forward, hunched over the sights of their weapons, covering each and every possible angle of attack. They were flawless after studying old manuals and practicing in the killing house back home. His Majesty's Navy and Royal Marines would be proud.

They finally reached the building and slowed to a crawl. The squad assembled round the open doorway and stormed the building clearing each of the downstairs rooms. There was a final room upstairs. King burst inside and almost shot the terrified zuman, lying against the back wall.

'Gah! Fuck! Who the hell are you guys?' the zuman shouted raising the shotgun in his hand. It was unlike any shotgun Nathan had seen: it had a huge drum magazine. King's squad prepared to fire. Nathan raised a fist and they stood down.

'A zuman… I never thought you…'

'That accent… What the hell is a zuman? Did you bump your head? I'm a ghoul!' he shouted.

'A ghoul… I am Petty Officer Nathan King of the Royal Navy.'

'The British Navy, your accent figures, huh? How did you get here?'

'I am the one asking questions…' Nathan ordered as the ghoul began to slump against the wall.

'…fucking super mutants and their damn centaurs…' he mumbled as he was rendered unconscious.

'Jones, set up your rifle.' King ordered as he crouched over the ghoul, checking his pulse. Nothing.

'How did you know he was a… zuman?' Corporal Anderson asked.

'Captain Shelley told me. There are… ghouls and zombies. They look the same except zombies have a taste for human flesh.'

'What I'd like to know is what super mutants and centaurs are?' Jones asked as he slid the scope onto the long range sniper rifle pointing back toward the shore.

'Anderson. Follow me. We're heading inland for a quick recce while the sun's still up.'

'Yes, sir.' he replied reluctantly. He tapped his rifle nervously as he followed King down the staircase and out of the property. The strafed towards an alley in formation and turned down it. He shot a glance into an alcove filled with skips.

Anderson gasped and fired at a mutant, identical to the one Petty Officer King had described earlier. It collapsed quickly as the 5.56mm rounds tore through its torso. There was a loud click. King tapped his shoulder signalling he had Anderson covered. He pulled a fresh clip out of a small satchel on the small of his back.

Even if the others had heard the shots, they would stay put as King had ordered. That must have been a centaur, Anderson thought.

'That's got to be a centaur, Anderson. I'd hate to see what a super mutant looks like… Forward.'

They emerged onto a plaza, fortified with bent and battered steel barricades. The pair scanned the areas through their scopes but could see little.

'Roaaaarrr! Humans!' screamed a voice. Anderson turned to stare into the green eyes of a bald yellow behemoth, eight feet tall, wielding a huge club. It charged screaming and flailing. It was completely naked.

Anderson dropped to the ground firing two double taps. The super mutant buckled and recovered, quickly gaining on them. King was in position, having pivoted to a kneeling position behind Anderson.

He fired a five shot burst from his laser carbine and watched as the mutant had a hole torn through its chest. It collapsed.

A 5.56mm round hit the back of King's helmet. He rolled out of the way and saw a armoured super mutant wielding an assault rifle identical to Anderson's. The gun jammed suddenly and the super mutant charged kicking Anderson as he got to his feet.

King turned and sprinted, firing as he fled. This mutant hardly flinched as two shots hit him in the arm.

The last King saw of Leo Anderson, was the super mutant reaching down to pick him up.


	4. IV

IV

Captain Shelley smiled under his surgical mask as he tore the shrapnel free from Alan's knee. It had been a nasty wound, a fall, during the now frequent power failures as the fusion engines choked every few days.

He was still groaning as he sutured the wound shut. The whiskey had its desired effect. Anaesthetics were reserved for battle wounds and major surgery. The last time that had happened was when an x-ray picked up a mutation on the top of Anderson's brain. It had been his second brain surgery and had taken him almost twenty hours. His wife was not pleased.

'How is that?'

'Muchhss betterrr…' he slurred as two of the five remaining soldiers on board entered to drag him too his room. They grabbed him roughly by the collar and pulled him out of the room.

Shelley tore his mask off and removed the lab coat and thick rubber gloves. At least he had proper surgical utensils. It was almost midnight, in fourteen minutes it would be Wednesday the 21st of March 2204.

He exited the operating theatre and yawned.

'You ready for bed now, Captain?' a voice asked. He turned to see his wife still dressed in the white blouse and skirt she had gone to work in. He smiled. She still looked amazing.

Eva was one of the most beautiful and passionate women he'd met in his life. It was love at first sight, in Shelley's case anyway. They had grown to love each other, almost by chance and had bonded through the trauma of their daily lives. Hope and happiness blossomed in their minds. She had taught the eight children onboard the submarine for three years, including their son, Aaron.

He nodded and nearly drowned in her hazel eyes. Shelley closed his eyes leaned forward and kissed her, stroking her tongue as she did. He slowly brought his hand from her backside up onto the bump on her stomach. Her pregnancy was their second blessing. They separated and she lead him towards their dormitory less than two doors away, They entered and bolted the door

'Is Aaron asleep?' Shelley asked and he began to undress her.

'Of course… kiss me again.' She whispered, staring into his eyes. Her face was one of the most beautiful, second only to Cassie Davis in her heyday, with large eyes, a small nose and small lips. She pushed a few rebellious strands of hair on top of her head; she wore it in a ponytail, the way he liked it.

They fell on the single bunk still in each other's embrace. He would not let anything disturb them tonight, be it a catastrophe. He slid his hand along her bloated belly as she pushed him onto his back. She planted kisses down his torso, and reached the spot as he ran his fingers through her hair. He began to pant faster.

It was going to be a long night.



Nathan King cursed as he fired another burst of laser fire into the alley. Carter's assault rifle choked suddenly and he struggled to free the jam.

'Fall back! We need Jones!' he ordered, as a shower of gunfire was sprayed from the plaza end of the alley. He tried to escape from the alcove he was pinned in. He heard a weapon hit the ground behind him.

'Carter!'

There was a pause in gunfire. Then a deafening roar. King turned the corner to see Carter digging his combat knife into the neck of one of the four super mutants. His comrades fired, mostly hitting the mutant in the back. He dropped to the ground covered in blood and fired continuous fire into the remaining muties. Two collapsed, with bullets riddled into their heads and Carter began to flee.

'Move, move, move, Corporal!' King yelled as he fled. Then he saw it.

A minigun in the hands of an armoured super mutant.



Victor had spent a long time scouting the fence of the Royal Marines Base. He had found an adequate hole in the fence for entry, far enough from any prying eyes watching from the base's upper floor.

With his steed tied to a tree with a bucket of water and food, Victor knew that while he was inside the base he wouldn't able to escape quickly. At least there weren't any robots, like the ones that guarded bases in the states.

He took another swig of warm water and went through the hole. He crouched in the long grass and peered down the sights of his assault rifle. As he waded through the sea of thigh-high grass, he glimpsed a small dock with many boats.

'Don't move!' a voice called from behind him.

Three people rose from the grass. He wouldn't have noticed them had he continued moving. One approached him, grabbed his rifle and in the process threw him onto his back. They were dressed in camouflage with bulletproof vests and armed with black 9mm pistols.

'We found a nice horse in the woods. Is it yours?' one of the men asked.

'None of your business. Who are you?' he sneered. A baton struck his chest. He gasped and it hit him again.

'Answer the question!'

'Yes, it's mine.'

'Good!' he said pulling out his baton and smashing Victor in the face.



'…found him in the field, Commodore. He didn't put up a fight. He's probably just a waster wandering in the wrong place.'

'Nephew, he's coming round.' said a distinctly posh voice.

Victor opened his eyes in from of him was the man who had interrogated him and another bald, much older, man with a beard. He was in a small room of some kind. There was paint on the walls and the table in front of him was clean.

He tried to move his arms but found them bound in metal behind his back.

'What were you doing here?' the older man asked.

'Nothing.' he replied emotionless.

'Look! I don't want to execute you. You actually seem remotely civilised. Now please just answer the questions I ask you.'

'I was coming here to loot weapons and medicines to sell. Maybe find a boat or something.' he answered. His head was throbbing but he couldn't rub it.

'So you are a looter?' the younger man asked.

'No. I am a trader, surgeon and was the Sheriff of London.'

'Poppycock!' the older man exclaimed.

'No, he's telling the truth. When Jones joined us he talked about some man named Waterloo, the Sheriff of London, who had a scar on his chin.'

He pointed at the faded scar. It was a souvenir from Roland when he had first met him, in the train tunnels all those years ago. The bald man sighed.

'If you're a surgeon, we could use a man like you. Our current nurse is a bit unsuitable for the role.'

The younger man nodded.

'I am Commodore Alexander Hayes of the Royal Navy. This is my nephew Petty Officer Nathan King.' the older man explained, motioning a hand toward the man standing beside him. 'What should I call you?'

'I am Victor… Shelley.


End file.
